The Golden Woman: A Story of the Montana Hills

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XXXII

  STRONGER THAN DEATH

  From the time of her aunt's going to Leeson Butte to the morning ofher return to the farm Joan passed through a nightmare of uncertaintyand hopelessness. Every moment of her time seemed unreal. Her verylife seemed unreal. It was as though her mind were detached from herbody, and she was gazing upon the scenes of a drama in which she hadno part, while yet she was weighted down with an oppressive fear ofthe tragedy which she knew was yet to come.

  Every moment she felt that the threat of disaster was growing. That itwas coming nearer and nearer, and that now no power on earth couldavert it.

  Twice only during that dreary interval of waiting she saw Buck. Buteven his presence did little more than ease her dread and despair,leaving it crushing her down the more terribly with the moment of hisgoing. He came to her with his usual confidence, but it was only withinformation of his own preparations for his defense of his friend. Shecould listen to them, told in his strong, reliant manner, with hopestirring her heart and a great, deep love for the man thrilling herevery nerve. But with his going came the full realization of thesignificance of the necessity of such preparations. The veryrecklessness of them warned her beyond doubt how small was the chanceof the Padre's escape. Buck had declared his certainty of outwittingthe law, even if it necessitated using force against the man whom heintended to save.

  Left to her own resources Joan found them weak enough. So weak indeedthat at last she admitted to herself that the evidences of the cursethat had dogged her through life were no matters of distortedimagination. They were real enough. Terribly real. And the admissionfound her dreading and helpless. She knew she had gone back to thefatal obsession, which, aided by the Padre and her lover, she had soloyally contended. She knew in those dark moments she was weaklyyielding. These men had come into her life, had sown fresh seeds ofpromise, but they had been sown in soil choked with weeds ofsuperstition, and so had remained wholly unfruitful.

  How could it be otherwise? Hard upon the heels of Buck's love had comethis deadly attack of fate upon him and his. The miracle of it wasstupendous. It had come in a way that was utterly staggering. It hadcome, not as with those others who had gone before, but out of herlife. It had come direct from her and hers. And the disasterthreatened was not merely death but disgrace, disgrace upon a goodman, even upon her lover, which would last as long as they two hadlife.

  The sense of tragedy merged into the maddening thought of theinjustice of it. It was monstrous. It was a tyranny for which therewas no justification, and it goaded her to the verge of hysteria.Whatever she did now the hand of fate would move on irrevocablyfulfilling its purpose to the bitter end. She knew it. In spite of allBuck's confidence, all his efforts to save his friend, the disasterwould be accomplished, and her lover would be lost to her in thevortex of her evil destiny.

  Fool--fool that she had been. Wicked even, yes, wicked, that she hadnot foreseen whither her new life was drifting. It was for her to haveanticipated the shoals of trouble in the tide of Buck's strong younglife. It was for her to have prevented the mingling of their lives. Itwas for her to have shut him out of her thoughts and denied him accessto the heart that beat so warmly for him. She had been weak, so weak.On every count she had failed to prove the strength she had believedherself to possess. It was a heart-breaking thought.

  But she loved. It would have been impossible to have denied her love.She would not have denied it if she could. Her rebellion against herfate now carried her further. She had the right to love this man. Shehad the right which belongs to every woman in the world. And hedesired her love. He desired it above all things in the world--and hehad no fear.

  Then the strangeness of it. With all that had gone before she had hadno misgivings until the moment he had poured out all the strength ofhis great love into her yearning ears. She had not recognized thedanger besetting them. She had not paused to ask a question ofherself, to think of the possibilities. She loved him, and the thoughtof his love thrilled her even now amidst all her despair. But themoment his words of love had been spoken, even with the firstwonderful thrill of joy had come the reality of awakening. Then--thenit was that the evil of her fate had unmasked itself and showed itshideous features, leering, mocking, in the memory of what had gonebefore, taunting her for her weakly efforts to escape the doom markedout for her.

  All this she thought of in her black moments. All this and far, farmore than could ever take shape in words. And her terror of what wasto come became unspeakable. But through it all one thing, one gleam ofhope obtruded itself. It was not a tangible hope. It was not even ahope that could have found expression. It was merely a picture thatever confronted her, even when darkness seemed most nearly tooverwhelm her.

  It was the picture of Buck's young face, full of strength andconfidence. Somehow the picture was always one of hope. It caught noreflection of her own trouble, but lived in her memory undiminished byany despair, however black.

  Once or twice she found herself wondering at it. Sometimes she felt itto be merely a trick of memory to taunt her with that which couldnever be, and so she tried to shut out the vague hopes it aroused.But, as time went on, and the hour for her aunt's return drew near,the recurrence of the picture became so persistent that it was rarelyout of her mental vision. It was a wonderful thought. She saw him asshe had seen him when first he laughed her threat of disaster anddeath to scorn. She could never forget that moment. She could hear hislaugh now, that laugh, so full of youthful courage, which had rungthrough the old barn.

  Pondering thus her mind suddenly traveled back to something which, inthe midst of all her tribulations, had completely passed out of herrecollection. She was startled. She was startled so that she gaspedwith the sudden feeling it inspired. What was it? Something her aunthad said. Yes, she remembered now. And with memory the very words cameback to her, full of portentous meaning. And as they rushed pell-mellthrough her straining brain a great uplifting bore her toward thathope which she suddenly realized was not yet dead.

  "Go you and find a love so strong that no disaster can kill it. Andmaybe life may still have some compensations for you, maybe it willlift the curse from your suffering shoulders. It--it is the only thingin the world that is stronger than disaster. It is the only thing inthe world that is stronger than--death."

  They were her aunt's words spoken in the vehemence of her propheticpassion. It was the one thing, she had warned her, that could saveher.

  Was this the love she had found? Was this the love to lead her tosalvation--this wonderful love of Buck's? Was this that which was toleave life some compensations? Was this that which was stronger thandisaster--than death? Yes, yes! Her love was her life. And now withoutit she must die. Yes, yes! Buck--young, glorious in his courage andstrength. He was stronger than disaster, and their love--was it notstronger than death?

  From the moment of this wonderful recollection, a gentle calmgradually possessed her. The straining of those two long wakefulnights, the nightmare of dread which had pursued her into the daylighthours, left her with a sudden ease of thought she had never hoped tofind again. It all came back to her. Her aunt had told her whither shemust seek the key that would unlock the prison gates of fate, and allinadvertently she had found it.

  In Buck's love must lay her salvation. With that stronger than deathno disaster could come. He was right, and she was all wrong. He hadlaughed them to scorn--she must join in his laugh.

  So at last came peace. The last wakeful night before the morning ofher aunt's return terminated in a few hours of refreshing, much-neededslumber. Hope had dawned, and the morrow must bring the morrow'sevents. She would endeavor to await them with something of theconfidence which supported Buck.

  * * * * *

  The room was still, so still that its atmosphere might have beenlikened to the night outside, which was heavy with the presage ofcoming storm. There was a profound feeling of opposing forces at work,yet the silence remained undisturbed.

&nb
sp; It was nearly nine o'clock, and the yellow lamplight shed its softmonotony over the little parlor, revealing the occupants of the roomin attitudes of tense concentration, even antagonism. Mercy Lascellesswayed slowly to and fro in the new rocking-chair Joan had purchasedfor her comfort. Her attenuated figure was huddled down in thatfamiliar attitude which the girl knew so well, but her face wore anexpression which Joan had never beheld before.

  Usually her hard eyes were coldly unsmiling. Now theysmiled--terribly. Usually her thin cheeks were almost dead white intheir pallor. Now they were flushed and hectic with a suggestion ofthe inward fire that lit her eyes. The harsh mouth was irrevocablyset, till nose and chin looked as though they soon must meet, whilethe hideous dark rings showed up the cruel glare of her eyes, whichshone diabolically.

  Joan stood some paces away. She was looking down aghast at thecrouching figure, and her eyes were horrified. This was the first shehad seen of her relative since her return that morning. The old womanhad shut herself up in her bedroom, refusing to speak, or to eat, allday. But now she had emerged from her seclusion, and Joan had beenforced to listen to the story of her journey.

  It was a painful story, and still more painfully told. It was full ofa cruel enjoyment such as never in her life Joan had believed thiswoman capable of. Her eccentricities were many, her nervous tendenciesstrange and often weird, but never had such a side of her character asshe now presented been allowed to rise to the surface.

  At first Joan wondered as she listened. She wondered at the fiercepurpose which underlaid this weakly body. But with each passingmoment, with each fresh detail of her motives and methods, her wonderdeepened to a rapidly growing conviction which filled her with horrorand repulsion. She told herself that the woman was no longer sane. Atlast she had fallen a victim to her racked and broken nerves, as thedoctors had prophesied. To them, and to the everlasting brooding uponher disappointments and injuries for all these long years.

  This she felt, and yet the feeling conveyed no real conviction to hermind. All she knew was that loathing and repulsion stirred her, untilthe thought revolted her that she was breathing the same air as onewho could be capable of such vicious cruelty. But she struggled tostifle all outward sign. And though she was only partly successful shecontrived to keep her words calm, even if her eyes, those windows ofher simple girl's soul, would not submit to such control.

  "I'm over fifty now, girl," Mercy finished up, in a low suppressedtone, husky with feeling, yet thrilling with a cruel triumph. "Overfifty, and, for the last twenty and more years of it, I have waitedfor this moment. I have waited with a patience you can neverunderstand because you have never been made to suffer as I have. But Iknew it would come. I have known it every day of those twenty years,because I have read it in that book in which I have read so manythings which concern human life. I was robbed of life years and yearsago. Yes, life. I have been a dead woman these twenty years. My lifewas gone when your father died, leaving you, another woman's child, inmy hands. God in heaven! Sometimes I wonder why I did not strangle thewretched life out of you years ago--you, another woman's child, butyet with Charles Stanmore's blood in your veins. Perhaps it wasbecause of that I spared your life. Perhaps it was because I read yourfate, and knew you had to suffer, that I preferred my sister's childshould reap the reward of her mother's crime--yes, crime. Perhaps itwas that while Charles Stanmore lived my hopes and longings were stillcapable of fulfilment. But he is dead--dead years and years ago. Andwith his death my life went out too. Now there is only revenge. No,not revenge," she laughed, "justice to be dealt out. That justice itis my joy to see dispensed. That justice it is my joy to feel that myhand has brought its administering about.

  "I have laid all the information necessary. I have a lawyer in LeesonButte in communication with my man in New York. And--and the sheriffand his men will be here before daylight. Oh, yes, I can afford totell you now that the work is accomplished. You shall have noopportunity of communicating with your friends. I shall not sleepto-night. Nor will you leave this house. There is a means of holdingyou here. A means which will never be far from my hand." She tappedthe bosom of her dress significantly, and Joan understood that she hadarmed herself. "The arrest will be made while they are still sleepingin that old fort of theirs--and your young Buck will pay the penaltyif he interferes. Yes, yes," she added, rubbing her lean, almostskeleton hands together in an access of satisfaction, "when you sipyour coffee in the morning, my girl, your Buck's foster-father will beon his way to the jail from which he will only emerge for the comfortof an electric chair. I have endured twenty years of mental torture,but--I have not endured them in vain."

  The cold, consummate completeness with which the woman detailed hercarefully considered plans turned Joan's heart to stone. It chilledher and left her shivering in the awful heat. For one moment, one weakmoment when her woman's spirit quailed before the deadly array offacts, she felt faint, and one hand sought the table for support. Butwith a tremendous effort she recovered herself. It was the thought ofBuck which helped her. She could not let him fall into the trap sowell laid by this--this creature, without an effort to save them both.In a flash her mind pictured the scene of the Padre's capture. She sawthe fort surrounded by the "deputies." She saw the Padre shackledbefore he could rise from his blankets. She saw Buck, under cover ofruthless firearms, hurl himself to the rescue and pay for his temeritywith his life. In a sudden overwhelming passion of appeal she flungherself on her knees before the terrible old woman.

  "Aunt, aunt!" she cried. "You cannot be so heartless, so cruel. Thereis a mistake. You are mistaken. The Padre swears to his innocence, andif you knew him as I know him, as all this countryside knows him, you_must_ believe. He is not capable of murder. My father committedsuicide. Think, think of all that went before his death, and you, too,will see that everything points to suicide. Oh, aunt, think of whatyou are doing. The plans you have made _must_ involve the man I love.A perfectly innocent man, as even you know. If my father was all yourworld, so is Buck all mine. He will defend the Padre. I know him. Andas you say he will pay the penalty with his life. If you have onegrain of pity, if you have one remaining thought of love for my deadfather, then spare this man to his daughter. Where is the right thatyou should involve Buck? You do not even know him. Oh, aunt, you havelived all these twenty years with me. In your own way you have caredfor me. Sacrifice your enmity against this innocent man. It will giveyou a peace of mind you have never known before, and will give me thehappiness of the man I love."

  Mercy's eyes lit with fine scorn as she caught at Joan's final words.

  "The happiness of the man you love!" she cried with passionate anger,"Why should I give you your man's love? Why should I help any woman toa happiness I have never been allowed to taste? Perhaps it pleases meto think that your Buck will be involved. Have I not warned you of thedisaster which you have permitted him to court? Listen, girl, not onedetail of all that which I have waited for will I forego. Not onedetail. When it is accomplished nothing on earth matters to me. Thesooner I am off it the better. The sooner I leave this world forother realms the sooner I shall be able to pursue those others whohave injured me and passed on to--a fresh habitation. Do youunderstand? Do you understand that I will brook no interference fromyou? Peace, child, I want no more talk. When this night is over Ileave here--nor shall I ever willingly cross your path again. You areanother woman's child, and so long as you live, so long as we arebrought into contact, the sting of the past must ever remain in myheart. Go to your bed, and leave me to watch and wait until themorning."

  The old woman's domination was strong--it was so strong that Joan feltappalled before the terrible mental force she was putting forth. Thehorror of her diseased mind sickened her, and filled her withsomething closely allied to terror. But she would not submit. Her lovewas greater than her courage, her power to resist for herself. She wasthinking of those two men, but most of all she was thinking of Buck.She was determined upon another effort. And when that effort wasspent--upon still anoth
er.

  "Listen to me, aunt," she cried with no longer any attempt at appeal,with no longer any display of regard for this woman as a relation. "Iam mistress in my own house, and I shall do as I choose. I, too, shallsit up and you will have to listen to me."

  Mercy smiled ironically.

  "Yes, you are mistress in your own house, so long as you do notattempt to interfere with my plans. Sit up, girl, if you choose, andtalk. I am prepared to listen even though your twaddle bores me."

  A sound caught Joan's attention, and the desperate position of herlover and his friend set thought flashing swiftly through her mind.The sound was of Mrs. Ransford moving in the kitchen.

  "Then listen to this," she cried. "You have told me that I am cursed.You have told me that death and disaster must follow me wherever I go.I love Buck. It is the first and only time I shall ever love. I knowthat. He is the love of my whole life. Without him, without his love,life to me is inconceivable. He and his love are so precious to methat I would give my life for his at any moment--now, if need be. Iwant you to know that. You have armed yourself so that I shall notinterfere with your plans. I tell you it is useless, for I shall warnhim--cost me what it may."

  She watched the other closely. She watched for the effect of herwords--every one of which was spoken from the bottom of her heart. Theeffect was what she anticipated. She knew this woman's expressedintention was deliberate, and would be carried out. One hand movedtoward her lean bosom, and Joan knew, without doubt, what she had toface. Turning her back deliberately she moved across to the window,which was wide open in a vain attempt to cool the superheated room,and took up her place near the table, so that she was in full view ofher aunt's insane eyes. Then she went on at once--

  "You call it justice that you would mete out to the Padre. I tell youit is a ruthless, cold-hearted revenge, which amounts to deliberatemurder. It is murder because you know he cannot prove his innocence.That, perhaps, is your affair. But Buck's life is mine. And inthreatening the Padre you threaten him, because he will defend hisfriend to the last. Perhaps by this, in your insane vanity, you hopeto justify yourself as a seer and prophetess, instead of beingforced to the admission that you are nothing but a mountebank, anunscrupulous mountebank--and even worse. But I will humor you. I willshow you how your own words are coming back on you. I had almostforgotten them, so lost was I in my foolish belief in your powers. Youtold me there was salvation for me in a love that was stronger thandeath. Well, I have found that love. And if, as you claim, there istruth in your science, then I challenge you, the disaster and deathyou would now bring about cannot--will not take place. You are only awoman of earthly powers, a heartless creature, half demented by yourvenomous hatred of a good man. Your ends can, and will be defeated."

  She paused, breathing hard with the emotion which the effort of herdenunciation had inspired, and in that pause she beheld a vision ofdevilish hatred and purpose such as she could never have believedpossible in her aunt.

  "You would rebel! You challenge me!" cried Mercy, springing from herchair with a movement almost unbelievable in so ailing a creature."You are mad--utterly mad. It is not I who am insane, but you--you.You call me a mountebank. What has your life been? Has not everythingI have told you been part of it? Even here--here. Did I not tell youyou could not escape your curse? Have you escaped it? And you thinkyou can escape it now." She laughed suddenly, a hideous laugh whichset Joan shuddering. "The love you have found must prove itself. Yousay it is the love that will save you. I tell you it is not. Nothingcan save this man now. Nothing can save your Buck if he interferesnow. Nothing can save you, if you interfere now. I tell you I havetaken every care that there is no loophole of escape. No earthly powercan serve you."

  "No earthly power?" Joan echoed the words unconsciously, while shestood fascinated by that terrible face so working with malignanthatred.

  But only for a moment it held her. Her love was stronger that all herwoman's fears. Her Buck was in danger, and that other. The warning.She must get that warning to them.

  Suddenly she leant forward upon the table as though to emphasize whatshe had to say.

  "Whatever happens to-night, aunt," she cried, her big eyes glowing ina growing excitement, her red-gold hair shining like burnished copperin the light from the lamp which was so near to it, "I hope God mayforgive you this terrible wicked spirit which is driving you. Some dayI may find it in my heart to forgive you. That which I have to do youare driving me to, and I pray God I may succeed."

  As the last word left her lips she seized the lamp from the table,and, with all her strength, hurled it through the open window. As itsped it extinguished itself and crashed to the ground outside, leavingthe room in utter darkness. At the same instant she sprang to the sillof the open window, and flung herself from the room. As she, too, fellto the ground a shot rang out behind her, and she felt the bullet tearthrough her masses of coiled hair.

  But her excitement was at fever heat. She waited for nothing. Herlover's life was claiming every nerve in her body. His life, and thatother's. She scrambled to her feet and dodged clear of the window,just as a chorus of harsh execration reached her ears. She lookedtoward the barns and hay corrals whence the sound came, and, on theinstant, a hideous terror seized upon her. The barn was afire! The hayhad just been fired! And, in the inky blackness of the night, theruddy glow leapt suddenly and lit up the figures of a crowd of men,now shouting and blaspheming at the result of the shot from the house.

  For one moment Joan stood still, trembling in every limb, heedless ofthe vengeful creature behind her. She was overwhelmed by the now utterand complete hopelessness of her case. Her horses were in the barnwhich had been fired. And they were her only means of reaching herlover.

  Then in a moment, as she beheld the shouting crowd coming toward thehouse, voicing their intent to burn that, along with its occupants,her mind went back to those still within. The wretched woman, whosedeath by burning might save the Padre, and her rough but faithfulhousekeeper. Regardless of all consequences to herself, now regardlesseven of the lives of those two men she had hoped to save, she ran backto the house.

  Flight alone could save the women inside from this drunken crowd.Flight--and at once. For, resentful at the shot which had felled oneof their comrades, the lawless minds of these creatures saw but onecourse to pursue. Well enough Joan knew their doctrine of a life for alife. She must go back. She must save those two from this raveninghorde.